


The Play's the Thing

by M_Moonshade



Series: The Best-Laid Plans [1]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, how can two intelligent people be so very stupid?, rituals so intricate they border on rube goldberg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-25 23:54:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30097095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: Garak recruits Bashir to help him deflect Ziyal's affections.
Relationships: Elim Garak & Tora Ziyal, Julian Bashir/Elim Garak, Kira Nerys & Tora Ziyal
Series: The Best-Laid Plans [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2224290
Comments: 95
Kudos: 140





	1. The Pitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My gratitude to Tinsnip for the details on Cardassian biology

“Doctor Bashir, I’m afraid I need to ask a favor.”

He’s chosen his target carefully. Of the potential candidates willing to oblige him (a frustratingly short list already), there are few others who would be half as convincing as the young doctor. Fewer still to whom he would tolerate owing a debt.

“What exactly do you need?” Bashir steps into the privacy of the shop and shuts the door behind him, clearly willing to listen—but by now he’s canny enough not to promise his services without explanation. Garak can’t help the surge of pride at how far the young doctor has come from the naive, fluttering boy who first walked onto the station. Somehow that makes all of this easier.

“I’m finding myself in a spot of difficulty with Major Kira’s new guest.”

“You mean Dukat’s daughter?” Immediately Bashir’s demeanor stiffens, and immediately he is all Doctor, brows furrowed as he looks Garak up and down. “Which one of them did it?”

“Your concern is appreciated, but I’m afraid it isn’t an injury that requires your assistance.” He would be so lucky—he wouldn’t have welcomed Bashir’s smug looks while he dealt with any injuries, but at least the doctor is above _‘I told you so’_ , at least until after his patient is in better spirits. “Miss Ziyal seems to have developed... certain feelings for me.”

The look Bashir gives him is somehow worse. “… _Murderous_ feelings?”

If only. “Amorous.”

“Oh.” Bashir clears his throat, and all that doctorial professionalism is usurped by a supreme awkwardness. “Um. Congratulations?”

That awkwardness is all that keeps Garak from taking insult, but he fixes Bashir with a reprimanding glare all the same. “Doctor, she’s _nineteen_. And she is unfortunately determined to ignore the fact that I’m old enough to be her father.” Quite possibly because her actual father is older still, and has no such compunctions about taking advantage of the naivety of youth. Or of anything else, for that matter. Really, her mother must have been an incredible woman to raise a daughter half as well-adjusted as Ziyal, given the circumstances.

“I take it you’ve tried explaining that you’re not interested.”

“Several times.” Her refusal to take no for an answer is another quality he’ll attribute to Dukat. “Though I’m afraid the situation has required some… delicacy.”

“What, did Kira threaten to kill you? Because I’m sure I could talk to her—”

“I assure you, I am more than prepared for Major Kira’s vengeance.” Still, he offers Bashir a wan smile. There aren’t many who are willing to intercede on his behalf at all, let alone so very often. “My concern is for Ziyal. She doesn’t speak of it often, but her life has hardly been an easy one. The Bajoran people have some… biases… toward Cardassians. Even half-Cardassians. Not entirely unwarranted, of course,” he adds, before Bashir can pull the conversation off track. “But in the poor girl’s case, wholly undeserved. And my own people aren’t exactly famous for their _inclusivity_.”

“And you don’t want to make her feel like she’s undesirable.” Bashir’s expression softens, and Garak is caught in a spike of protective anger. How do humans survive like this, with their open faces and unguarded expressions, without even scales to keep them safe? Doesn’t he know how easily that naked empathy can be used against him? Apparently unaware of his vulnerability, he continues. “What can I do to help?”

“I can’t change the reality of the situation, but I can change the narrative surrounding it. That I’m not resisting her advances because of some imagined deficiencies on her part, but because I’m unavailable to receive them.” Bashir, for all his brilliance, doesn’t seem to catch his meaning, so he elaborates: “Because I’m already spoken for.”

“Oh.” It takes him just an instant to put it all together. “ _Oh_.”

“And that, my dear doctor, is where you come in.”

* * *

As any seasoned operative knows, (or so Garak tells him,) the key to a success is research, practice, and preparation. Which is what brings Garak to Julian’s quarters in the dead of night.

“Is this really necessary?” Julian asks, looking around at everything but the uninvited guest on his couch. “I know how to kiss, Garak. I’ve been in relationships before.”

“With Cardassians? If we’re going to convey the familiarity of a long-term relationship, there can be no sense of exploratory fumbling.”

Julian sighs. “Point taken.” On the bright side, this is probably the closest he’s going to come to getting a primer on Cardassian biology. And he won’t even be risking his life for it, so that’s a pleasant change from the last time. “Alright. What do I need to know?”

“You’ll be familiar enough with the basic humanoid anatomy. As for the most relevant differences…” He taps his ocular ridge. “Our ridges are sensitive to pressure and impact. Most of them qualify as erogenous zones, but the neck and shoulders especially so.”

“Is that why the military uniform is… like that?” Julian asks, gesturing vaguely at his own clavicle. “To… ah… show off the goods?”

It wouldn’t be unique, exactly. In ancient times, European military uniforms were brightly colored and flattering as a way to tempt impressionable young men to enlist.

“I wouldn’t put it so bluntly,” Garak says. “They’re considered handsome, certainly, but not necessarily sexual. They aren’t like the lobes on a Ferengi. You aren’t likely to bring a Cardassian to their knees just by touching their neck.” There’s a note of expectation in his voice.

Julian clears his throat. “But in the… scenario we’ll be playing out, it would make sense for me to touch your ridges.”

“Yes.” That expectation again. 

“Should I...?”

“That _is_ why I’m here, Doctor.”

Right. Okay. This is the part he’d been dreading: groping around like a teenager in the dark. Julian reaches out a tentative hand and brushes his fingers over the largest scales on Garak’s neck. They’re cool and hard and slightly textured, almost like his own fingernails. He presses down, and feels a slight amount of give.

“You’ll have to be harder than that if you want to be convincing,” Garak says. Julian realizes abruptly that those cool blue eyes are fixed on him, intense as a phaser but devoid of expression. “Remember, they’re defensive in nature. You aren’t going to hurt me.”

“Right.” Julian swallows and applies more pressure, as if he’s working knots out of a particularly stubborn muscle. Still more, until he really does wonder if he might do some damage—and then he spots a slight movement. A flicker in the eyes, a twitch around the ridges. Nothing as overt as a flinch, merely a reaction. “Is that right?”

“It’s better.” Garak’s voice remains impassive.

Experimentally Julian lets his hands rise to Garak’s jaw, tracing the ridge of scaling there with his fingertips—no, that feels awkward—with the pads of his thumbs, letting his palms rest on the sides of Garak’s neck. Higher still, to the shell of the ear—not nearly as flexible as the human ear, he observes—and he follows the raised scales that encircle Garak’s orbital socket. The angle is deep enough to shield the eyes from the sun’s glare and from potential attack, but at the expense of their peripheral vision. In another time and place, he might make an observation at the Cardassian tendency toward tunnel vision. Instead he draws his fingertips closer to the center of Garak’s forehead.

“What about this? The… ah… spoon?”

All things considered, he probably deserves that glare. “They’re called _chuen_ , if you would be so kind.”

“Chuen,” he repeats, rolling the word around on his tongue. “There’s more than one, then?”

“Three. The chufa,” Garak says, indicating his brow. “The chula.” His hand sinks to the hidden flesh under his shirt, just at the base of his clavicle. “And the chuva.” His hand sinks deeper still, and Julian can’t follow it without turning his head, and right now that feels a little too much like ogling for his comfort.

“Ah. Are they… sensitive?”

“Very.”

Julian swallows, his mouth strangely dry. “Something I should avoid, then?”

“If we were portraying a new relationship, perhaps,” Garak says carefully. “But ours is meant to be long-established. There should be a… familiarity… between us.”

“Right. That makes sense.” And it also makes sense that he needs to familiarize himself with the crest of the chufa. He’s learning his role. There’s absolutely no reason why his hands are shaking.

The muscles in Garak’s jaw tighten as Julian follows the soft crest with his fingertips. He dips into the deep indentation, and Garak jolts, his eyes snapping open.

Julian snatches back his hand. “I’m sorry. Did that hurt you?”

“No.” Garak’s voice is strained. “I’ve just grown unaccustomed. Moments like these are what preparation is for.”

Because that’s all it is. Preparation for their big performance. And that means they’ll need to keep practicing until Garak is—until they both are—desensitized.

“Alright,” Julian says hoarsely. “I’m going to do it again.”

Garak tilts his head in a slight nod. He shuts his eyes, but they flutter slightly as Julian’s hand hovers close.

“Can you feel that?” Julian asks, moving his outstretched finger side to side. Garak’s eyes follow it from behind his eyelids.

“Yes.”

“A sensitivity to body heat?”

“Bioelectricity,” Garak corrects. “The chuen are sense organs.”

To compensate for the lack of peripheral vision, of course.

“Incredible,” Julian breathes. “So what you’re responding to here isn’t touch, it’s—” He brushes his fingertip over Garak’s chufa, and immediately forgets how he intended to finish that sentence.

Garak must have been caught by surprise, because this time he responds with a full-body shudder. His lips part as he draws in a sharp, shallow breath. When his eyes open, they’re wide and dark.

It’s suddenly very hard to breathe.

“Sorry,” Julian whispers.

“I’ve already told you. You aren’t going to hurt me.”

Julian steels himself and touches him again. This time he takes careful note of Garak’s muted reactions—the precise angle and pressure that makes Garak’s breath hitch, the long strokes that make his pulse rise, the tiny vocalizations that follow the scratch of a fingernail.

It’s getting harder to stay detached, to remind himself that this is all purely research. They’re doing this for Ziyal. He isn’t supposed to enjoy drawing these reactions out of Garak.

He needs to calm down before he does something stupid. He raises his hand again and tries to ignore the way Garak chases it the moment it leaves his chufa.

“Some humans enjoy having their hair pulled,” Julian suggests. “Do Cardassians? Do you?”

“On occasion.” Garak’s eyes slide open as Julian’s hand weaves into his hair—stiffer than he expected, more voluminous, almost like feathers. “Do you?”

Julian gives a miniscule nod and then nearly jolts at an unexpected touch. He didn’t realize how one-sided their exploration had been until he feels Garak’s fingers nearly electric on his skin, the blunted claws lightly scratching over his scalp, and then closing into a fist—

Julian’s back arches until he’s practically in Garak’s lap, chest to chest, eyes open wide and he can see Garak’s hungry gaze on him, drinking in his contorted features, his outstretched neck, the erection tenting his trousers—

In the same instant Garak releases Julian’s hair and Julian’s legs snap together, trying to hide what Garak has obviously already seen.

They sit apart for several seconds, pushed to opposite sides of the couch as if magnetically repulsed from one another. Julian would be ashamed of his heavy breathing if he weren’t so aware of the unnatural steadiness of Garak’s breaths. They’re too long, too measured, too controlled.

“An interesting reaction,” Garak says as if he’s just watched a pH strip turn red, rather than Julian’s face. “But I don’t believe that will be necessary for our purposes.”

“I agree,” Julian says, and he tries not to let the disappointment color his voice.


	2. Line Reading

Another night, another session.

They made respectable progress with their previous encounter, but it proved the need for more practice. If Ziyal had seen the way they’d parted, no lie could have convinced her that the relationship wasn’t new—and that would beg the question of why Garak had chosen Bashir over her, and that is unacceptable.

“I don’t know about that,” Bashir muses. “If she knew what kind of effort you’re putting into sparing her feelings, she’d probably be flattered.”

Garak shoots him a toothless glare. “All the time we’ve known each other, and yet your ignorance of Cardassians still manages to astound me.”

“You _are_ a very private people.” His smile belies a nervous energy behind his eyes. “What have you got planned for tonight?”

“What else?” Garak asks. It seems vulgar to say it outright.

Bashir nods, though he doesn’t seem entirely comfortable. “Just like that?”

“Are you having second thoughts?”

“No. Of course not.” That nervous energy is starting to feel contagious. “It’s just that it’s a little… out of the blue, don’t you think? Intimate moments don’t come completely out of nowhere. I mean, where’s the foreplay?”

Garak raises one brow ridge. “Doctor Bashir, exactly what do you think Ziyal will be walking in on?”

Bashir’s face tints red, and Garak can’t help but admire the color. It would work quite well in the palate favored by his Bajoran customers. “No—no, I didn’t mean—it’s just a figure of speech, I swear—”

A finger pressed to his lips renders him silent, but no less flustered. Really, it’s a charming look on him. Garak remembers all too clearly the way Bashir _squirmed_ at their first meeting. He’d wanted to pin the man down, just to see the effect it would have on that delightful wriggling.

Slowly he removes the finger to trace the corner of Bashir’s jaw. There's something so very satisfying about the tremor that follows his touch. “How is that for foreplay?”

The doctor swallows.

“Now. Do you need a moment, or shall we continue?”

He takes the nod as permission. "Something simple to begin, I think."

And he closes the distance between them.

There is a truth that he is unwilling to confess: it has been far, _far_ too long since he’s done something like this. In the years since his exile, he’s known only the most casual affection, typically from the oddly effusive customer and, more recently, a once-weekly ration from Bashir. And so when Ziyal arrived on the station, so young and eager to cling to anyone who showed her kindness, his reaction was perhaps stronger than was appropriate. Not that he made any overtures of his own, but he could never bring himself to pull away from her touch as quickly as he should, could never rebuff her as completely as he intended. If it didn’t encourage her behavior, it hardly discouraged her, either.

If he is going to enforce the boundaries between them, he cannot allow himself to be undermined by his gnawing touch-hunger.

He restrains himself enough that Bashir won’t be frightened off by the intensity of his need. This encounter was presented to him as research and rehearsal, and he will take it no further. Bashir doesn’t need to know how intently Garak is taking in every sensation—the softness of his lips, the faint scratch of evening stubble against his cheek, the taste of his mouth, the little sounds he makes as he tries to regulate his breathing.

When they part, Garak doesn’t chase those lips and demand more. He schools his features into that careful neutrality. He counts his breaths— _in_ two three four _out_ two three four—while Bashir struggles openly to regain himself.

“How was that?” Bashir asks.

Even if Garak had the words for it, he wouldn’t use them.

“It established a baseline,” he says instead. “There’s room for improvement.”

“How so?”

“It was stiff. Wooden.”

“Alright, then.” He flashes a nervous grin. “Do you mind if I have a go?”

“I’m not stopping you,” Garak says. He almost does, though, when Bashir’s hands cradle his face. The touch is too sweet, too gentle, and he nearly pulls away when he feels a delicate kiss against the corner of his mouth, a second to the tip of his nose, a third squarely on his lips.

 _Focus. Calm. You were an agent of the Obsidian Order once. Seasoned operatives do not tremble_.

“It’s progress," he says when Bashir draws away. His voice is impressively steady.

“But not quite there?”

“Not quite.”

And Bashir kisses him again. He’s bolder this time, holding Garak close with one hand and kneading his shoulder with the other. His mouth moves slightly, entreating Garak’s lips to part. An irrational part of Garak wants to hold back, to resist ceding that bit of himself to Bashir’s intrusion. But that’s the other half of why he’s here, isn’t it? To grind away those defenses that would give away the game.

Slowly, deliberately, he lets Bashir in. His tongue is as soft and quick as the rest of him, flicking against the roof of his mouth and over his teeth. Gentle, skilled motions that tell of evenings spent with other partners in his arms. Garak feels a surge of jealousy—no, _envy_ , he tells himself—and decides abruptly to make use of it. The instant Bashir’s tongue slips away he catches the human’s lower lip between his teeth, and he nearly grins at Bashir's soft gasp.

It’s harder, this time, to pretend he’s unaffected when they part.

Bashir quirks a brow at him. "Was that better?"

Garak makes no mention of the want coiling at the base of his spine. Of course _he's_ persuaded. As pathetic and lonely as he's become, their every shared glance feels like an invitation. He knows better than to act on those impulses.

“It needs to feel natural," he says. And in a moment of weakness, he adds, "Like you want me.”

That was a mistake.

“Well, then.” Bashir moves as if to get up, and Garak almost reaches out to him, ready to pull him back and beg him to stay. Instead Bashir climbs into his lap. “How’s this?”

Garak tries to answer him, but he couldn’t form words even if he knew what they were meant to be. His groin aches at having Bashir’s heat so close—but the weight on him, the pressure of thighs on his lap, brings back too many thoughts of Tzenketh, of tight places and no way out—and blended with it all is the sudden panic that this is all getting out of hand, he’s no longer in control, not of the situation and not of _himself_ —

But Bashir doesn’t know that. He _can’t_ know that. So Garak swallows his panic and forces himself to nod a go-ahead. Bashir’s weight shifts on top of him.

“On second thought, maybe this is a bit much. How about something else?”

Garak doesn’t even realize his eyes are pressed shut until he opens them again, and Bashir is right there, gentle concern etched in his features. Silently Garak berates himself-- of he reacts this way in their actual performance, Ziyal might just call for security. But he sees no such reprimand in Bashir’s eyes. The dear doctor is, as always, far too kind.

When Garak leans in to seal the kiss, Bashir follows his lead completely. Every movement is gentle and unhurried, without pressure or expectation. When their lips part, Bashir effortlessly throws one knee over Garak’s lap and sinks back into the couch beside him. Garak braces for humiliation—not a word bas been spoken, but he can all but taste the condescension in Bashir’s tone.

Instead Bashir rises. “I could use a drink. Do you want me to get you something, too?”

It's such a small mercy. Unasked for, but freely given.

“I wouldn’t say no to red leaf tea.” His voice doesn’t shake. If he sounds hoarse, it can be easily accounted for by thirst.

Bashir nods and devotes several minutes to the replicator, fiddling with the settings perhaps longer than necessary while Garak composes himself. When he returns, his attention is on the two steaming mugs in his hands, setting them on the coffee table between them with particular care not to spill a drop. He sits on the far end of the couch, one leg crossed over the other so he’s turned halfway to face him—but it also forms a small barrier, offering a little bit of distance without seeming unnatural.

Garak is all too familiar with the power barriers can hold over the mind, the way his subjects changed when they no longer had the shelter of a table between themselves and their interrogator.

Garak reaches out and sets his hand briefly on Bashir’s knee. “Thank you, Doctor.”

The warmth in his chest has very little to do with tea.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Bashir says. “Though I thought we could take a moment to get into the logistics of all of this.” At Garak’s nod, he continues. “What impression are we going for, exactly? Something steamy? Smitten?”

Garak shakes his head. “Nothing so overt as to give it away as a performance. It should feel realistic. As if we’ve done this a thousand times already.”

“Well, then.” Bashir smiles at him over the rim of his mug. “That’s four down. Only nine-hundred and ninety-six to go.”

 _Only_. The word sends an odd jolt to the pit of his stomach. It doesn’t feel like nearly enough.

“I think we’ll have mastered the art long before then,” Garak assures him. “I think we’re well on our way already.”

Bashir tips his head in a half nod and takes another long sip. “I was wondering, though. What about the long term?”

Garak’s mind goes places he’d rather it didn’t, but his mouth is under tighter control. “Once the idea is planted in Ziyal’s mind, it won’t take much to maintain. Even the most casual interactions can be bent to appear romantic if she’s already in the right frame of mind. All I ask is that you not make any unnecessary denials.”

“Right. But you know how gossip is on this station. She might start getting some ideas if I start seeing someone else.” He takes another thoughtful sip. “Unless… you don’t want me to see anyone else for a while?”

The thought hits Garak harder than it should. No. He doesn’t want Bashir prowling Quark’s like a hound in heat. He doesn’t want to explain to Ziyal how someone else has gotten their hands on him, their _scent_ on him. He doesn’t want to think about some fine-featured interloper following Bashir into these quarters, into his arms, into his _bed_ —

_Calm yourself. You're fretting over hypotheticals._

What happens on the future is irrelevant. In this moment, Bashir is alone. With him. He knows it even with his eyes shut, so attuned to the human’s presence that Bashir is nearly aglow. Garak’s ridges feel tight. Oversensitized. They’re probably tinting blue, as well, but hopefully Bashir doesn’t know all the things that implies. 

He steadies himself.

“Doctor Bashir, I believe I’m already imposing enough just having you participate in this little farce. I couldn’t ask you to deny yourself on my account.”

But he wants to. _Oh_ , he wants to.

Bashir shrugs. “Well, if she starts to doubt our star-crossed romance, we can always arrange for an encore.”

“So long as you’re still amenable.”

“Of course.” Bashir’s eyes are downcast, watching the pool at the bottom of his cups where dregs should rightfully be. He’s told Garak of ancient practices of divination involving those spent leaves, swirled in a cup and overturned into a saucer.

The replicated variety is more than appropriate for Garak’s needs. He has no future with Bashir. This thing they share is as artificial as the drink in his hands, and it will be forgotten as soon as it’s no longer needed.

For now, though, he will hold it close and drink deep.

For now, it will keep him warm.


	3. Dress Rehearsal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter would have been a lot less fun without the Cardassian Name Generator at fantasynamegenerators.com.

It's imperative that their behavior not change during lunch. If there's a sudden shift in tension, then Ziyal will absolutely notice, and she'll be able to mark an exact beginning to their little show. 

Still, Julian goes over it again during the gaps in their conversation: flushed scales, hitching breaths, flexing muscles barely restrained. 

He knows he isn't supposed to take their little rehearsals personally, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy them. And there are moments when he swears that Garak does, too. 

But the conversation is moving his way again.

"Really?," he asks, taking his turn. "I think Ienol is being far too heavy-handed in her denials. If anything, her portrayal of the almighty state almost seems satirical in places." 

"In some places, certainly," Ziyal says. "But almost all of them revolve around Ceray. I thought that was the intention of his character: to showcase the way even loyalty can overreach. To give the rest of the story nuance. And maybe a touch of humor."

"I could see that."

Garak gives an exasperated sigh. "Really, you two. Ceray is clearly meant to be a tragic figure." 

Julian could point out the long history in both their cultures of tragicomedies-- he could make a few points about a certain Shakespearian character and his death via curtain-- but he cedes the floor to Ziyal instead, content to watch her and Garak spar. 

He's gentler with Ziyal than he is with Julian, less prone to insults and sharp jibes, and so she's able to maintain an even footing in the conversation far past the point where Julian would be riled up and red-cheeked. Maybe it's the softer play, or maybe it's just the fact that he's watching it from outside, or maybe it's the nights he's spent studying the subtleties of Garak's face, but he can finally see the maneuvering hidden between the words. Garak is taking extreme positions to force Ziyal to oppose them, fixating on little bits of wording in order to steer the conversation this way and that. His eyes light up victoriously, not when he's made an point that she can't counter, but when he's turned her in another direction entirely. His grin warms with pride when she makes a particularly astute point of her own. No wonder he always walks away acting like he won their debates: he's playing a different game entirely. 

Julian takes a long sip to hide his smile. 

If the game is action and reaction, then the words really don't mean much at all, do they? And Julian's learned a few ways to provoke a reaction out of Garak.

How sensitive are his chuen? Would that sensitivity be affected by conductivity? Static electricity in the air? Moisture? How would he react to the flick of a tongue?

The conversation turns his way again, and he's forced to turn his focus away from Garak's brow. 

"Actually, Ziyal, I've seen characters like Tikbitt in other works of Cardassian literature. She might be an allusion to one of those-- or perhaps a common archetype. She bears a remarkable likeness to Ashel Banat in _The Never-Ending Sacrifice_."

"Doctor, you can't be serious," Garak cries, but his eyes are alight with glee. "The two may both be servants, but beyond that the similarities are completely superficial. It's no wonder you didn't appreciate the book if you only managed a surface-level reading."

Now that he's looking for it, he can see it here, too: Garak's trying to goad him into a more detailed comparison. So Julian swerves in a different direction.

"In fact, the doting servant archetype isn't the only one those two works have in common," he says. "There are elements of the redeemed coward in both Vion Onra and Muneet Ental-- though I would argue that in the later chapters Ental takes on more aspects of the blackmailed villain." 

Ziyal frowns. "Are those not the same thing?" 

"In some works, certainly," Bashir says. "Especially here, where one leads into the other. But some authors have them supporting each other in opposition to the protagonist, or pit them against each other."

And just like that, the conversation is turned from Tikbitt to popular Cardassian character types. Point to Bashir. He casts a quick gloating look in Garak's direction--

Garak is looking back at him, and Julian is ensnared by those cunning eyes.

 _What a clever trick,_ he seems to say. _Let's see what else you can do._

Julian quirks his lips into the slightest of smiles. _Try me and find out._

And then he turns away and replies to Ziyal's question without missing a beat.

* * *

They've worked out the fundamentals of their plan. 

If he insisted, Garak could likely persuade Bashir to keep up the practice, but he can't justify the necessity of it. He can only indulge himself so far-- and the more he partakes of Bashir's company, the worse it will be when this ends.

It will end. There's no point drawing it out. 

The night before, he sends a message.

_B--_

_Your new costume has arrived. Come in before lunch and I'll adjust the fit._

_\--G_

And then he waits.

Searches the security database, hacks into Sisko's accounts to check the latest comings and goings. Replaces the sleeve of Rom's uniform after a truly bizarre engineering accident, and then proceeds to haggle the Ferengi down to a fair rate (how the poor man managed to survive on Ferenginar is anybody's guess). All the while he counts down the hours. He forces himself not to react each time the door opens-- he feels too much like a hound waiting for his master's return, and that metaphor seems a little too on the nose, as it were. 

Still he can't ignore the way his pulse jumps when the pneumatic hiss is finally followed by that familiar tread of footsteps. 

"Doctor Bashir." He can't keep the smile off his face, but he can keep it respectably demure, at least out here. 

"Garak. I believe I'm due for a fitting."

"Of course. Into the back room, if you would. I'll be right there." An electric thrill runs down his spine as he watches the doctor leave. He allows his gaze to linger for a moment on that lithe form before he enters the security codes, darkening the windows and the 'open' sign-- but not locking the door. It's an uncomfortable oversight, but a necessary one. They've reached the point where Ziyal can safely intrude on them. That won't be possible of she can't make it through the door, and she's far too sweet-tempered to break in.

Best to leave out unlocked. Best to make it a habit so it doesn't look so obviously like a setup.

Slowly he retreats to the back room, where Bashir is waiting for him. 

The uniform is half undone, the jacket discarded and thrown over the back of a chair. Beneath it is a thin turtleneck, all medical-blue, the unbroken lines emphasizing his slender arms, his long neck, the contours of his narrow chest. A body so lovely deserves more flattering clothes. Colors that compliment his sand-dune complexion, fabrics that drape over the contours of that sinewy form. 

"Did I catch you in the middle of something?" Bashir asks, adjusting the hem of one sleeve. "I could come back later if you'd like."

"Not at all." Garak steps closer. "I was simply contemplating how I was going to repay you for this particular favor."

Bashir smiles, bemused. "I'm not doing this so you'll owe me, Garak."

Of course he isn't. Haggling prices and bandying favors is far too crass for noble-minded Federation citizens. That lofty attitude would be nauseating on anyone but him. 

"--though if you want to make my day, you could always start by coming in for your physical. Planting fake files only works until I talk to the attending physician, you know." 

Garak pretends to look shocked. "My dear doctor, I have no idea what you're implying."

"And that's another thing." Bashir is closer to him now, almost circling him. Predatory is a good look in those all-too-noble eyes. "I think it's time you stated calling me Julian."

Garak looks up at him. "We've talked about sudden changes--"

"Not out there." He nods at the door. His hand falls on Garak's shoulder. "In here. When it's just the two of us." 

The suggestion leaves Garak unbalanced. That's a step too far. Too intimate. "It's a bit late in the game to be making major changes, my dear."

"Is it, though?" Bashir takes another step, his chest barely touching Garak's back, his breath hot on the nape of his neck. "I'm not entirely sure. Because there are some key details we haven't yet discussed."

"Oh?" Garak's hair prickles at the closeness, but he doesn't turn. 

"How far we've gone together, for one." His thumbs knead into the scales under Garak's shoulders, sending a blissful heat down his spine. "I know the kinds of things that are said about me on this station. Some of them are even true. You, though." One hand slides across Garak's collar, tracing his chula through the fabric of his tunic. "You are ever the gentleman, Mister Garak. But I've never imagined you a major proponent of chastity." 

_Breathe, Elim._ "Doctor Bashir, are you propositioning me?"

"Merely trying to get our stories straight." _Guls_ , it's hard to think when his fingers are ablaze so close to his heart. "Because either our relationship is asexual... or it isn't." His lips are so close to Garak's ear that it takes all he has not to shiver. "And I don't think 'my dear doctor' is what you'd be calling me in bed." 

"Goodness, no. Any respectable Cardassian knows to use full rank and title in the throes of ecstasy." He twists to properly face the doctor, conveniently sliding his hand from its distracting position as he catches Bashir's chin in his hands, and pitches his voice to a low, husky whisper. "Lieutenant Julian Subatoi Bashir, MD, Chief Medical Officer of Deep Space Nine." 

Bashir's seductive smolder cracks into a grin. He buries his face in Garak's shoulder to stifle his laugh, but only succeeds in sending sweet little shockwaves deep into his bones. 

_Breathe, Elim. Breathe._

Slowly Julian's laughter slows into deep, shaking breaths. When he looks up, tears of mirth glitter in his eyes. He smiles like the first rays of sunrise after a cold night.

And Garak kisses him. Without script, without strategy, without any thought at all except of the man in his arms. 

He should have known. 

On Romulus, he wouldn't have been chosen to take the role of a gardener if he hadn't already been skilled with plants-- and he wouldn't have been able to inhabit that role without actually tending the embassy's grounds.

This is no different, really. He wouldn't have chosen Julian for this endeavour if he hadn't already harbored feelings for him. It's only natural that their work would cultivate those feelings into something deeper. Stronger. And now they've taken root in his chest and he might never be rid of them entirely.

In this moment, he doesn't want to.

Julian breaks the kiss slowly, gently. His eyes are warm, his cheeks just slightly flushed, his lips barely parted as he catches his breath in the shared air between them.

Even to Garak's trained eyes, the look Julian gives him seems so very real.

"So," he murmurs. "How long do we have until the big show?"

"It's already begun," Garak says. "And we can give another at the same time and place next week, until Ziyal stumbles upon us."

"And if she doesn't?"

"Then there's always the week after that," Garak says. "I could make some minor appointment with her and conveniently lose track of time."

"Too staged." Julian shakes his head softly. "She'd never believe you would be so careless. If we want her to really believe it, then she'll have to think walking in on us was her own idea."

"There's no telling how long that will take," Garak reminds him. 

"We've already gone this far, haven't we? After all that, I want to make sure we do it right."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garak's conversational style with Ziyal is one part Socratic dialogue and one part old-school internet troll tactics (which, depending on your conversation partner, aren't all that far removed from each other to begin with).


	4. Curtain Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, for a story that hinges so much on Ziyal, we've seen remarkably little of her so far.

Garak's Clothiers is already closed by the time Ziyal arrives to meet its proprietor for lunch. The windows are dimmed to opaque, except to reveal the sign indicating that Garak will be back in an hour, the front lights are out-- but not the ones in the back. It isn't' like him to be so careless when locking up the shop.

Experimentally she tries the door, and it opens. There's a light on in the back, which means he's probably still finishing some last-minute tidying or something of the sort. She fully intends to go and offer her help, but she allows herself to linger.

There's something illicit and eerie about being in the shop in the dark. The large swaths of fabric on display absorb light and sound and leave behind only shadows and breathless stillness. The mannequins, ordinarily stylish and colorful, turn to looming figures that lurk in the corners of her vision, only to slink back into harmless decor when she turns her head to look. It's thrilling-- but the way a holosuite is thrilling, the way Jake Sisko's scary stories are thrilling-- because she knows all the while that it's a silly, make-believe fear. The sort of game she played as a child, when she was safe. Nightmares about the mines and the Breen don't intrude into those places. 

She takes a deep breath, grounding herself in the scents of the store. The starches and fabric cleaners, the bits of clean fibers that dangle in the air, the pungent dyes of specialty fabrics. She knows that it's Garak who smells like the shop, and not the other way around, but it brings a smile to her face. 

That's another reason why she feels at ease here. All things considered, it's probably the safest place on the station. 

With her playful mood restored, she heads toward the backroom light, lightening her footsteps to near silence. She hasn't managed to sneak up on Garak yet, but perhaps, if he's distracted, she can manage to surprise him. She slips through the dividing curtain without a sound.

True enough, Garak doesn’t seem to notice her, but her stealthy approach has nothing to do with it. The wormhole itself could open up beside him, and she doesn't think he'd pay it any mind.

He’s with Doctor Bashir, one arm curled around the doctor’s waist, the other locked palm to palm, their fingers intimately interwoven. Their eyes are half-lidded, their foreheads pressed together—at least until Bashir tips Garak’s chin up and kisses him so tenderly that it brings a blush to Ziyal’s cheeks and an ache to her chest.

Careful not to make a sound, she retreats from the shop. Then from the promenade. She'll have to send a-- a note. Tell him she can't make it today, before he notices her absence. (Though would he notice much of anything right now?)

They were--

 _Prophets_ , she's been such a fool. Why didn't anyone say anything?

Garak-- he's been hinting about this all along, hasn't he? And the way he and Doctor Bashir look at each other, smile at each other when they think she can't see, not shy but intensely private. And the not-so-subtle way Nerys kept warning her off?

All this time it's been staring her in the face, but she just wasn't willing to see it. 

She doesn't know how long she's been wallowing in her misery when she hears the door chime. 

"Ziyal?" Nerys calls. "Are you there?"

She nods for a moment, before remembering that of course Nerys can't see her. "Come in."

Hurriedly she wipes tears from her eyes and pats at her cheeks, hoping to erase the signs that she's been crying. It's futile, she knows, but she can't bear to face Nerys without at least making an effort. 

Light floods the room for a moment and washes away as the door shuts again. "Ziyal?" Careful footsteps approach. "Are you hurt?" Because Nerys knows better than to ask if she's alright.

She attempts a smile. "No. I'm fine." 

Nerys sets a tentative hand on her arm. "Did something happen?"

"No. Not really?" Prophets, it's such a stupid thing to cry about. "It's fine. It's nothing."

"Are you sure?" The bed dips as Nerys sits beside her, sliding her arm around to hug her shoulders. "Because between you and me, I wouldn't mind beating some heads in." 

Ziyal bows her head, but a watery laugh bubbles out of her throat. "I appreciate it, but no. I just... I realized I've been acting like an idiot. That's all."

"You're no such thing." Nerys gives her shoulders a squeeze. "Whatever happened, I know you can survive it. And I'll be right here to help, alright? In whatever way you need."

"Especially if it involves beating heads in," Ziyal says, her smile a little more genuine.

"Especially then." 

* * *

Julian tries not to flinch when he hears Ziyal's footsteps approaching. 

This is it, isn't it? The culmination of all their research and preparations. The grand performance. 

The excuse that's let him hold Garak in his arms all this time. 

Better make it count.

 _I love you_ , he thinks at Garak, trying to project the words right at him. He's no Vulcan, no Vorta, no Betazoid, but what the hell. Maybe his augmentation left something a little extra behind. Maybe when they're this close, the chufa can detect the biolectric impulses of thoughts themselves. He has no evidence for either scenario, but it's a nice thought all the same.

He hooks a finger under Garak's chin and draws him into the kind of kiss that makes Garak shiver and pull close and make those vulnerable little sounds that only Julian gets to hear. 

_I love you,_ he pours into the kiss, and he hears the soft intake of breath near the front of the store. 

The footsteps recede. The storefront door opens and shuts again.

He could say nothing and hope that Garak didn't hear. Insist that they need to keep this going for another month, another year, until ZIyal is so thoroughly persuaded that she's married and spoiling her grandchildren. 

But Garak would know. Of course he would know.

He could tell Garak the truth--

No, he can't. 

Because he knows what that looks like. The silly, weak-willed human got so into character that he fell for his own con. He can already see Garak's discomfort, his pity, 'my dear doctor, I thought I had made our situation clear...' And then Garak will be right back where he started, trying to politely ward off yet another lunch companion's unwanted advances.

Julian can't do that to him. 

He ends the kiss, knowing in the pit of his stomach that it's a kiss goodbye.

"That was her," he whispers. Their fingers unlace. The hand holding Garak's jaw falls away. 

Garak glances at the door without turning his head. "She saw?"

"And immediately made her exit." Julian steps back to a more professional distance. "I think that counts as a success."

"Practically a standing ovation." He's smiling, but his expression is closed off, hiding a response he doesn't want Julian to see. Relief, maybe, or regret for hurting Ziyal even in this gentle way. Or longing, if Julian allows himself to project. Or a small, private grief that this make-believe thing they have is finally over. 

Julian smiles and doesn't let his own feelings show. "Now that that's settled, would you like to join me for lunch?"

"My dear, I thought you'd never ask." And Garak gestures to the door, inviting Julian to leave first, because they always stagger their exits. It wouldn't be a torrid secret love affair if they went to lunch arm in arm, after all. 

Julian spares one last glance back before he makes his exit. 

_I love you,_ he thinks, and knows he'll never get to say it aloud. 

* * *

"Is there something you're looking for, my dear?" Garak asks when Ziyal's attention drifts to the doors for the third time. He knows the answer already, but it's best to let her tell him herself.

"It's nothing," she says immediately. And then, self-consciously, "I just thought Doctor Bashir would have arrived by now. Will... he not be joining us?" 

Her blush is as oddly indicative of her parentage as the rest of her face: her cheeks take on pink tones, while a warm purple tints her ridges. 

"I'm afraid not," Garak says. "The duties of a doctor are as plentiful as they are unpredictable. He sent his regrets earlier. I'm surprised he didn't send the same to you."

"Oh," ZIyal says carefully. "Yes, that makes sense." Clearly Ziyal is not surprised at all. Judging by the momentary widening of her eyes and deepening of her flush, she has some guesses about what such a missive might entail. She's wrong, though. It was nothing so salacious.

 _It might be best if I skip our lunches for a little while,_ Julian had said. _I don't want her to feel outnumbered while she's adjusting to... all this._ He'd waved vaguely at the space between the two of them, all the while averting his eyes. He didn't look at Garak at all during that conversation, except when he thought Garak couldn't see him.

"Why do you ask?" Garak asks. Best to get this conversation into the open soon. "I hope you aren't feeling unwell?"

"No, no, nothing like that." She looks at her plate. "Except he didn't come to lunch last week, either. And I suppose I was worried something might have happened. Maybe the two of you gotten into an argument." 

Knowing what he does about her feelings for him, Garak might have expected that to come out with a note of hope. What better opportunity to capture the object of her affection than in the wake of heartbreak? This would be the perfect time for a seasoned manipulator to insinuate herself as a provider of support and comfort, a welcome contrast against all the shortcomings of her rival.

But Ziyal is no manipulator, and there is no suppressed glee in her tone. She seems nervous. Almost guilty. 

"My dear, the doctor and I argue as a matter of course. If I'd done something to offend him, he wouldn't hesitate to say so."

"And... if _I'd_ done something?" There's something undeniably Bajoran about the way she shrinks into herself, utterly devoid of the masks and restraint. "If my being here... annoyed him, or upset him-- would he tell you that?"

And all at once the truth of it strikes him like a blow to the face. 

Because it is nonsense for her to take this on herself-- the relationship wasn't even real, so it wasn't as though she'd have been able to intervene in the slightest-- but it isn't without precedent. Because acknowledging her publicly had cost Dukat everything-- his rank, his titles, his marriage and the custody of his children-- and he wasn't the sort of person to clarify that the fault had been his own. He would paint himself as the martyred hero who'd had an affair and bravely _not_ murdered his child. She, in turn, would be his tragic flaw, spared from reproach only because of his generous devotion. 

Garak's stomach turns.

"Ziyal." He catches her gaze and doesn't let it go. "I promise you, Julian holds you in the highest esteem. He enjoys your company as much as I do, and he's not such a coward that he would run from a disagreement rather than facing it." He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Public speaking, on the other hand, is another matter entirely."

Some of the anxiety fades from Ziyal's features as she leans in. "Public speaking?"

"He'll be giving a presentation at a medical conference next week, and he's spending every free moment refining his notes and delivery. The poor thing is working himself into a mania over the whole ordeal-- not least of which because his rival from medical school will be in attendance. It's a bit of a sore spot for him."

"Oh." She sits straighter, and a relieved smile returns to her face. "Do you think it would help him to practice in front of an audience?" 

"I don't know," he says. "But I would be happy to pass the question along."

* * *

Julian startles when he hears the chime on his door. It can't be Miles-- if he wanted to play darts tonight, he would have said something earlier. If there was a medical emergency he would have been called directly. And Garak--

He hasn't seen Garak in weeks now, except in the form of silent nods from across the promenade. No. It won't be him.

He sighs. Might as well get this over with. "Come in."

The door slides open. 

Julian takes in the figure in the door frame for half an instant before his eyes slide to his desk. There are padds full of notes scattered across the surface, too far away to catch without his augmented vision, but he sweeps over the opening lines regardless. He can read them well enough. Apparently this isn't a dream. 

He doesn't know whether to be anxious or disappointed about that. In his dreams he knows exactly what to do when Garak comes to his quarters. Real life is hardly so simple.

"Doctor Bashir," Garak says, stepping inside so the door can shut behind him. "I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time." He nods at the messes that are Julian's couch and desk, his luggage buried under a mountain of clothes and notes and things he really doesn't need. 

"Not at all. I was just getting an early start on packing." Self-consciously he wants to apologize for the clutter, but there isn't much of a point. Garak's seen him in worse states. In this very room, at around this time of night. But that was ages ago. Their little charade is over with. 

Unless it isn't.

He feels a little guilty for the spark of hope that lights up in his chest. It isn't that he wants anything to go wrong, exactly. But he wouldn't mind an excuse to go back to the way things were.

He clears his throat. "How is Ziyal?"

"She misses you. Lunch isn't quite as stimulating without you there."

"I'm sorry about that." Being stimulated was half the problem, though, wasn't it? It was all well and good when he began all their lunches with a long snog in Garak's shop. Now, without that little emotional outlet, just being near him makes Julian's skin prickle with need. If Garak slid his hand across the table to touch his arm, Julian isn't sure he could keep the reaction off his face, and that would ruin everything. 

An idiotic voice in his head wants to volunteer that information, ask Garak if they can pick up where they left off, just for the sake of veracity. He doesn't dare, though. He's already pushed their little charade past the point of plausibility. 

"She wanted me to ask if you'd like to rehearse your presentation in front of an audience. It might render it a touch more _persuasive_."

Julian's mouth goes dry as he's struck with a moment of _deja vu_. That's all it is, though, he's sure. "Are you offering to sit through an hour of nonsense on late-stage prion disease?" 

"I believe Ziyal intended to volunteer for that particular honor," Garak says smoothly. "Though I'd be happy to help with anything else you might need."

Julian swallows. Because Garak is in his quarters, and in his space, and he wants so badly to kiss him again. He can't take much more of this. If he tries, he'll either wind up throwing Garak out or bending him over the table. Still, he tries to keep his face straight and take back control of the conversation. "Are you still trying to pay back that favor?"

Garak smiles-- that sly, secretive grin Julian loves. "I admit I prefer to repay my debts in a timely fashion. A word of advice, my dear: never buy merchandise from a supplier who waxes poetic about compound interest."

"Alright." He can do this. "Then maybe this is the right time to settle those accounts." 

Garak tilts his head, inviting him to continue, and Julian suddenly remembers the bedtime stories his mother used to tell him about mischievous djinn and the power of well-chosen words. "I want you to listen to what I'm going to tell you. And I want to know that you won't hold it against me."

"Of course." Garak's expression shifts just slightly. Julian isn't sure anyone else would have noticed it, but he can see the stiffening of his features, the flattening behind his eyes, as he fixes a premade expression in place. For better or worse, whatever Julian says next, he won't see Garak's reaction. He isn't sure if that makes all of this better or worse, but it's what he asked for.

"I... enjoyed our... rehearsals together." His words come out awkward and slow, but he plods ahead. "Our performances. Probably more than you intended when you asked me to participate." He wets his lips, if only to remind himself that his mouth hasn't gone entirely dry. "I think I would have continued on forever, if you'd wanted to." 

He searches Garak's eyes, but of course he finds nothing there. 

"And it's alright if you don't feel the same way. I'm not about to make it your problem." Jadzia had sat him down once and explained that to him after one too many come-ons. Their relationship had survived his crush. This one could, too. "But I just-- I might need a little time to... to get over you properly." A deep, heavy breath, and then he nods. "That's all."

For a long moment, Garak doesn't move. Doesn't blink. If he even breathes, Julian can't see the signs. Then, finally: "I see." 

"I thought it would be better for both of us if you knew."

"Yes. I imagine so." He tilts his head, and his expression is still so shrouded that Julian can't tell what the hell that means. "You haven't gotten over me already?"

Julian looks away. "No." 

He's aware of Garak moving, though he tries to focus on literally anything else-- right until the moment Garak's hand cups his cheek. 

"How fortuitous," Garak says, a centimeter from Julian's mouth. 

And then there's no space between them at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been waffling hard on exactly what direction to take this. There's been the potential for some major angst, but I feel like this has been too much fun to get too deep into the dark stuff. I've got a continuation in mind, but it veered a little too much from the established plot line to fit neatly into the same fic (also, there are only so many theater terms I can squeeze into chapter titles). At the moment, I'm looking into making the continuation a sequel.


End file.
